This is the seventy-first chapter of an ongoing
series. I've appreciated all the comments, questions and encouragement
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Back in our suite Peter went
off to Roger's bedroom, where he'd left his clothes. I heard them laughing
as I headed for a long, hot shower, and then climbed into bed alone.

Later, well after midnight, Roger
slipped into bed with me. I felt his naked body press against mine and
figured Peter had gone. I nuzzled against Roger and he pulled me over against
him as I again drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, as I woke to the
first soft light slanting through the windows, Roger put his lips to my
ear, kissed me and asked, "how's your ass?"

"I'll live," I responded, pressing
back against him.

"I remember the first time I was
fisted," he said softly, his lips still almost pressed against my ear.
"I didn't think I'd walk for a week."

"Did you? Walk, I mean."

"Yes, by the next day, with a long,
hot soak, I was fine."

"I took a long shower last night."

"I'll run you a bath," Roger said,
rolling out of bed. "A soak will make you right."

In an instant he was gone and I was
immediately missing the warmth of his body. I did drift off again and was
sleeping when he came back to get me up.

"Water's hot and the tub is full.
Come on, kiddo." He pulled me from the warm bed and marched me across the
room and into the bath. I settled into the steaming, perfumed water, feeling
at once its soothing powers.

Half a hour later Roger was back,
this time with a cup of black coffee.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Great," I smiled up at him. "I think
I'll live."

He'd shaved and dressed and looked
ready to meet the day.

"Oh, the morning after," he smiled.
"You must have been enjoying it last night, though. You were certainly
begging Peter for more."

"Yeah," I admitted, taking a sip
of the hot coffee, "I never felt anything like it before and I never had
a climax like that."

"I know, it can be overwhelming,
but you only want to do that with someone who really knows what he's doing."

"I guess so," I agreed, "but Peter
just took charge."

"I wasn't worried," Roger said, "I
knew Peter would take his time and not do you any harm. He's a real master
at that sort of thing."

"He seems to be a master of a lot
of different things."

"Wrestling, you mean?" Roger asked.
"He took me fair and square, but next time it may be the other way around.
I've won my fair share of our little matches."

"I wasn't just thinking of wrestling,"
I said. "I got the feeling he likes to be in control. Maybe he even likes
to cause pain."

"He does, and he's good at it, but
he's also willing to take it." Roger was silent for a long moment, standing
just inside the bathroom door, looking down at my naked body stretched
out in the big tub. "I don't like people who only enjoy it one way, giving
or taking," Roger finally added. "A real man, in my book, can give and
take, not just one or the other. In Peter's case, he'll happily fist fuck
another man but he gets off on being the bottom, too. In fact," Roger went
on, "we've done each other."

"So he's fisted you, too," I ventured.

"Oh, yes, a good many times, and
I've done several other guys as well, not just Peter."

"I couldn't get over the feelings
I was having when his hand was all the way in me. It was almost . . ."

"Yes?"

"I don't know, I was just searching
for the right word."

"Other worldly?" Roger suggested.

"Yes, I guess that's a good way to
describe it. I felt as if my whole body was somehow transported."

"I know." He turned back to the door
and then added, "soak a few more minutes, Rob. Then you'd better get dressed.
We have an appointment at ten o'clock with the chairman of the board of
the British Film Institute."

"I remember, I'll get out now," I
said, standing up in the big tub and reaching for a towel."

"What about breakfast?"

"Just coffee," I said as I dried
myself.

The taxi took us through Trafalgar
Square and along the Strand past Bush House to an old office building which
looked as if it had been built before World War II. It had a heavy stone
exterior and Art Deco style which suggested the 1930s.

On our way in the taxi Roger had
outlined the reason for our meeting and the advantages of working closely
with the government sponsored board.

Then, after reviewing the business
for the day, he added, almost as an aside, "Peter invited us down to his
place in Surrey for two or three days."

"I thought we were due to fly back
to the States on Thursday."

"We are, but I can call Peg and clear
it. She'll be all for us getting to know Amsted and his people."

"Well, it might be fun."

"I'm sure it will be," Roger smiled.

Peter Amsted's house in Surrey was
not overly large but sat in a sizable parcel of private parkland and was
surrounded by a brick and wrought iron fence which looked as functional
as it was ornamental.

The house itself appeared to be Tudor
but Peter was quick to point out that only a small portion of it actually
dated from the sixteenth century. The larger part had been built in the
1860s by an iron magnate from Leeds who wanted to turn himself into a country
squire.

We arrived just after five in the
afternoon and were shown to separate but adjacent bedrooms. Apart from
Peter, the only other person we saw was a man in his late fifties or early
sixties who seemed to be the only staff.

Drinks, we were told, were available
in the drawing room and dinner would be served at seven thirty. It sounded
as if we were in for a leisurely evening but Peter assured us he had plans
for the next couple of days.

"What's the dress code around here,
Peter?" Roger asked. "Are we expected to be formal or informal for dinner?"

"Oh, it's just us men, and Simon
is used to my bohemian ways. I'd say no ties this evening, informal, even
by your provincial California standards."

Simon, I gathered, was the man who'd
welcomed us and taken our bags from Oliver, who had driven us.

In my room I unpacked and ran a bath,
as hot as I could stand, and soaked for half an hour. My rear was already
much less tender. I really would survive!

When I knocked on Roger's door and
got no answer, I went on down to the drawing room, assuming he and Peter
were already there. They were, in fact, seated opposite each other on matching
sofas before a large but unlit fireplace. To my surprise, behind them,
standing alone at the drinks table, was a younger man with his back to
the room.

"Ah, there you are," Peter said in
a friendly, jocular manner. Then, turning to the younger man, he said,
"William, meet Rob."

The man who turned to greet me was
so startlingly good looking that I felt almost speechless. He moved across
the thirty feet which separated us with an easy, athletic gait.

"Hello, Rob," he said as he came
nearer. "Dad's told me all about you. I'm really glad you could come."

He was my height, slender and fair,
taller than his father and not at all like him in coloring or appearance.
I wondered what Laura Sanders, William's mother, was like, and decided
that as soon as we were back in LA, I'd look for photos of her.

"William," I said, taking his hand.

His eyes were blue and his hair was
an infinite blend of colors, golden and pale yellows. His complexion was
light but with the healthy glow of youth and vitality of playing fields
and beaches and ski slopes. He was wearing gray slacks and a blue pullover
which complimented his hair and eyes.

"I understand you are a Nathan Fellow."

"Yes."

"And one of Roger's former students."

"I sometimes feel as if I'll never
cease being one of his students," I managed to say with a smile.

"What are you drinking?" he asked,
going back to the drinks table.

"What are you having?" I asked, following
him and not sure if I could handle anything very strong.

"Just orange juice for now. Dad will
ply us with wine at dinner."

"That sounds perfect."

"Two orange juices then," he said
with a brilliant smile.

We joined Roger and Peter, I instinctively
moving to Roger's side on one of the sofas as William joined his father
on one facing us.

Roger smiled and held out his glass
to touch mine. Cheers," he said, which the rest of us echoed. Peter, I
noticed, grasped William's thigh in an affectionate way, not quickly releasing
it, but slowly squeezing and stroking it as our conversation continued.

William, for his part, seemed completely
at ease with his father's show of affection. He leaned back in a relaxed
way against the back of the sofa and extended his left arm behind his father's
shoulders, while with his right hand he held his glass. Sitting across
from them I couldn't see Peter's left hand, but it looked as if he were
stroking his father's shoulder with the same easy affection with which
Peter stroked his son's thigh.

I couldn't help thinking of my own
father. I would never have felt comfortable touching him or being touched
by him in a similar manner.

The conversation went on in an easy
way, talk of films and filmmakers, banter about which actors and actresses
were dating or marrying or getting divorced.

At one point William got up to replenish
his father's and Roger's drinks and then, half an hour later, Simon came
to the door to say dinner was served.

We were led through double doors
into a huge formal dining room, around the long table and out through a
set of doors on the opposite side. Through them we entered a sort of conservatory
with a high glass ceiling and walls. Potted tropical plants were placed
around the sides but the center of the space had been left clear, and in
it an elegant round table had been set for the four of us. It was an informal
but stylish setting for what was an excellent meal.

At each place bowls of chilled cucumber
soup had been placed before we came to the table and Simon served an excellent
dry Sherry with it.

We chatted as we ate and the conversation
turned to William's final year at Durham University. I learned that he
was an undergraduate at University College and reading literature. His
plans and expectations became the primary subject of our conversation throughout
the rest of the evening.

As soon as the soup dishes were cleared
Simon served an elegant Salade Niçoise
accompanied by a chilled white Burgundy.
I noticed that two additional bottles of wine stood open and breathing
on a serving cart and realized the truth of William's remark, that his
father would 'ply us with wine at dinner.'

As the meal continued with poached
salmon and then with roast lamb, a lighter red claret was followed by a
heavy, venerable merlot. I quickly realized that I would have to pace myself
and didn't try to finish one glass before moving on the next. At one point,
when I moved the first of the red wine glasses back to make room for the
second, I looked across the table at William, who was smiling silently
at me. When I raised an eyebrow he nodded.

After the extraordinary meal we went
back to the drawing room where Peter poured a fine old Taylor Port.

"Please, Peter," I said, "just a
drop for me."

"Literally?" he asked.

"Yes, literally," I said.

"He means it, dad," William said,
smiling over at me from one of the sofas. "Not everyone is as big a lush
as you and mother."

I wondered if by 'mother' he meant
Charlotte or Laura.

Again when I looked over at him he
smiled. "Besides, Rob looks tired." William then added, "I think I'll take
him off to bed soon anyway."

"Would that be okay, Rob?" Roger
immediately put in. "Would you mind if I left you in William's care?"

"No, not at all," I responded, looking
from him to Peter. I'd assumed Roger might be spending the night with our
host and had also assumed that I'd be sleeping alone.

We all found places to sit but a
subtle change had occurred without a word being spoken. Peter went over
to sit by Roger and I joined William. But where Peter and Roger sat comfortably
close to each other, William and I were at opposite ends of the sofa with
a space of several feet between us.

The conversation continued for another
half hour with Roger and Peter doing virtually all the talking. Then William
rose, came over to stand in front of me and took my still half-filled glass.
He set it and his own empty glass on the coffee table and said, "come on,
Rob, I'm going to tuck you in."

I stopped to thank Peter for a wonderful
evening and an excellent meal. Roger took my hand and pulled me down, giving
me a sort of clumsy hug and a light kiss on the cheek. As he did so Peter
gave my shoulder an affectionate pat.

"Sleep well, kiddo," Roger said.

"Yes," Peter echoed. "And William,
I trust you'll be a good host."

"Absolutely, dad," he smiled. "Don't
worry about Rob. I'll take good care of him."